Kite Flying Weather
by Chelle Storey-Daniel
Summary: Mark has it bad for Callie. But she's blind. Will Mark have what it takes to make her realize that he is what she has been searching for all along?


"And then," she says, downing her shot of tequila, "she just walked off." Callie punctuates the 'off' with a loud hiccup, followed by a loud and rather unladylike belch. "Just…walked off."

I catch Joe's eye, and with one hand make the 'cut her off' motion. He nods almost imperceptibly, and slyly pulls the shot glass out from in front of her. In it's place, I put the sandwich I'd ordered for her.

She wrinkles her nose. "I don't want to eat." Her voice is slurred, but tinged with sadness not even booze can hide.

"You shocked her, Callie, that's all. She didn't reject you outright. You just…caught her off guard."

"No." With a long sigh, Callie runs her hands through her black hair, shaking her head. "It's me. It must be me. It's always me."

I sigh. "I have very little patience for self-pitying drunks."

She turns to me, her eyes bright thanks to the tremendous amounts of booze she's had tonight. "Mark, I don't get it."

"Get what?"

"What's wrong with me?"

"Not a damn thing, Cal. It's the people you choose that have the problems."

She scowls. "I hate you! Finish what you started, you said! Play twister, you told me. Go after her and kiss her and -"

I hold my hands up in self-defense. "I never said you should kiss her. You came up with that one all by yourself."

"Whatever. I still hate you."

"Pitiful and belligerent. Lucky me." I playfully nudge her and she nearly goes headfirst off the stool. I grab her and pull her against me, shocked when she puts her head on my shoulder.

Callie Torres is not touchy feely with me. Usually in the on call room she clutches, claws, and rakes her nails over me, but I'm lucky to get more than one kiss. Basking in the afterglow of mind-blowing sex is out of the question, too. She's always got her pants halfway up by the time I come down from the high and she's out the door before I can say little more than 'thanks'. Most women want to be wrapped up tightly and *talk* about feelings, but Callie's a lot like me - get some, get done, and go.

I liked our little arrangement well enough and I'd never stroke her ego by telling her that she's the best lay in Seattle ... hell, in the United States. She's not quite as gifted as the woman I met in Thailand, but Callie hasn't blown me yet so I could be wrong. She won't do that for me. I've only asked once and she looked repulsed at the thought, then told me her mouth wasn't going all the places my dick had gone.

It's the first time anyone has made me feel dirty. What used to be a badge of egotism at my conquests is now a little round button of shame. I'm ashamed that I've reduced myself to nothing more than a stud service. Even Bailey sees me as some revolting waste of space who fucks and operates with enviable skill. I'm good at both and I know it. I enjoy both and everyone knows that. I want both. And I want more.

Lately, I just want more. I want to be all someone thinks about. All *she* thinks about.

"Fuck her," Callie says suddenly, gesturing wildly and nearly toppling off her stool again. "She wasn't even a good kisser… and? I'm not gay. I am still a huge fan of penis." She picks at the sandwich she had refused only moments ago and takes a bite, talking with her mouth full. "I should have joined the convent. My dad wanted me to, but no, I had to go and be a doctor."

I have to laugh. "You like sex too much for a convent, baby," I reply. "Do you really think you could have lived without the penis you're so fond of?"

"I could have learned. And don't call me baby." She reaches for her drink, her face falling when she realizes it isn't there. "Where in the shot is my shit?"

"Trust me, you've had enough," I reply, and she stands up on the lower rungs of her stool in an attempt to help herself to a bottle. Peanuts fall in the floor, her purse spills its contents, and she swears so magnificently that I can only stare at her in wonder. With a mouth like *that* ... where my dick has been should be the least of her worries.

I catch Joe's attention and rub my fingers together, signaling that it's time to pay, but he shakes his head, points at Callie, then at the door. I've been here more than once. I've picked up her pieces more than once. I've pulled her off a stool and helped her to a cab more than once and tonight won't be any different.

But then, in the passing of a moment, it is.

Helping her pick up the contents of her purse feels incredibly intimate. I am seeing her makeup, a tampon, whatever lipgloss she wears that tastes like bananas. And a little change purse with Eeyore on it. I've seen her naked a million times, but this ... this is seeing her exposed.

We bump heads as she tries to stand and I laugh because she does. I always laugh when she does.

As we stand on the sidewalk in front of the bar she looks up at me and her eyes don't seem nearly as glassy as they were just moments ago. "Mark?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we just…walk?"

I look down at her high-heeled boots. "You're kidding, right? This sidewalk is ten degrees from becoming ice."

She takes several steps away from me, her arms folded over her chest and I follow her because I'm carrying her leather coat. I shake it open and move in front of her, holding it out. She looks confused for a second and then slips her arms into it. When she doesn't zip it, I do. "Hmm," she says, staring at my leather clad chest. "We match."

"Yeah, we do" I tell her, seizing the opportunity to slip my arm through hers. She's not as steady on her feet as I'd like for her to be. Instead of walking though, she leans her head against my shoulder again and looks up at me. I don't think I've ever fully appreciated how dark her eyes are. They're not brown. They're more like liquid onyx and ... I need to be shot for waxing poetic about that. If I keep this up, my membership to the male gender will be revoked and then I'll…oh God, I'll end up like Derek, all mopey and soulful and living in a trailer.

"We match," she repeats. "You're a good doctor. I'm a good doctor. You come from money. I come from money. We both willingly lived at the Archfield. We're both hot. And we're both alone…so alone."

That stings. I clear my throat while I think of a reply. "I'm here and you're here. That makes us…not alone."

She bites her lip thoughtfully. "We have sex."

I feel myself smiling. "Yes, yes we do."

She scrunches up her face, wrinkling her nose. "It's good sex. But it's empty sex."

Okay, that stings more. To fill the uncomfortable truth that now exists between us with *something* other than silence, I pull my gloves out of my jacket pocket and slide them onto her hands. She stares at my face the entire time and when I readjust the leather straps on the wrists to keep the gloves on her hands, she finally looks down at them. I chuckle a little. "We don't match there, huh? My hands are a lot bigger than yours."

"You're the only man I've ever known who could catch me if I fell. You're strong enough, I mean."

I smile at her. "You're the only woman I've ever known who could make me *want* to catch her if she fell."

She playfully punches my shoulder. "Liar. Your cheesy smarm doesn't work on me."

"Sure it does, Cal." I pull her arm through mine again and nod at the night before us. "Let's take that walk."

When she falls in step beside me, our stride is evenly matched. I glance down at her, watching the way the light dusting of newly falling snow causes her hair to glisten in the street lamps. We do match, I think. She laughs at my stupid jokes. She's immune to my pick up lines. She doesn't expect a phone call from me, but is never surprised to get one. She knows a booty call from commitment and ... she knows commitment. I taught her how to throw the perfect dart ... I wonder what she could teach me about relationships. I wonder if she would be willing to try, given everything she knows about me. I wonder when I started thinking of her as anything other than the best fuck buddy I have.

"You're beautiful, you know," I say.

"Whatever, I'm done with sex," she scoffs, waving a hand.

"I'm not saying that to try to get in your pants," I reply, laughing. "I just think you should know that you're beautiful."

She rolls her eyes at me. "It won't work. My ego is crushed. I'll never recover."

"You're too good for her," I say. "She's a cold-hearted, cruel, hateful bitch who isn't worthy of you."

"You don't have to badmouth her for me. You tried to get in her pants yourself."

"Only because I had forgotten what it was like to be in yours."

She blushes, the flush starting at her neck and working its way up. She's trying to hide it behind a curtain of dark hair, but it's there. I can practically feel it. I open my mouth to say something dirty and witty, but she stops me before I can say a word.

"Why don't you take me back to your hotel room and remind *me* why I like to let you in them." She's pressing her body against me, and despite myself I laugh to hide the fact that I am now sporting a huge tent in my pants.

"You're drunk, Cal."

"Never stopped you before," she says, playing with the button on my shirt. "Come on, Mark. Please?"

"I'll take you back to my room, but we're going to *talk* and *sleep*. Got it?"

She stomps her foot, making a face. "Are you on that kick again? No sex? I don't want to talk."

"Pitiful, belligerent, and whiney, too." I reach up, brushing a lock of hair off her forehead and impulsively lean down and kiss the line of freckles on her nose. "If we hurry, they'll still be accepting room service orders and I know how much you like the roast beef at the Archfield."

Her shoulders slump in defeat and she nods, crossing her arms over her chest. "I never should have listened to you. About Erica."

"Well, you did. And it obviously backfired, but it doesn't make me any less wise."

"Wanna bet?"

"Hey, I have plenty of wisdom."

"Like this new 'no sex' policy? That's not wise."

I stare at her ass when she turns back toward Joe's and I know that my 'no sex' policy is definitely not wise. It is, quite possibly, the most idiotic form of self mutilation I've ever endured, but I'm going to stick with it. Empty sex, I have decided, is not the way to go. Not if it leaves people like Callie ... and me ... in its wake. When we arrive at my car, I leap around her and open the passenger door. It earns me an exaggerated eye roll, but that makes me feel better because that's Callie. Her fire is back even though Erica Hahn doused her liberally with cold water. What doesn't make me feel better is how quiet Torres is on the drive to the Archfield. Under normal circumstances, she would have criticized my driving no less than ten times on the ten minute drive, but she's eerily quiet. Even when I make the tires squeal just to earn a reaction ... she doesn't have anything to say.

The elevator ride and subsequent walk to my room is punctuated with several sighs from her and I swear she's dragging her feet like she dreads it. I unlock the door and hold it open, letting her pass in front of me. She unzips her jacket as she goes and tosses it haphazardly on the table in the corner. Just a few hours ago she was asking me if I wanted to finish what we started and it caused me physical pain to tell her to go and finish what *she* had started ... with Erica. I have said stupid things in my time, but that beats them all. I half expected her to laugh at my suggestion and tell me that she wanted me. I wanted her to tell me that *I* was all she thought about when I left it wide open for her to assure me it was true.

"Did you get our pictures back?" she asks suddenly, slicing through my thoughts.

I close the door behind me and nod, watching her pick up the packet of photographs that I had developed the previous day. Was it really only a week ago that she had said it was 'kite flying weather' and I had confessed that I had never flown a kite before? She shocked me after work, sitting on the trunk of my car with a long package in her hand. She assured me there was enough daylight left to properly fly a kite and asked me if I knew of any open spaces. Taking her to Derek's piece of land had come naturally to me and watching her skilled hands put the kite together had given me so much ... joy. The disposable camera was hers and she assured me that I'd want to document such a landmark as flying a kite for the first time. For posterity, she had said.

When Derek joined us, I felt like a teenager as we darted back and forth in the wind, trying to keep the kite aloft.

You know, maybe that's why Derek keeps telling me that Callie is a great woman. Maybe he's been seeing what I'm finally seeing all along.

My favorite photo ... and I watch now as she comes across it and lingers ... is Callie standing across from me, with me offering her the kite string after I had sent it crashing to the ground. She had just finished saying 'You have GOT to be kidding me, Sloan' and the look on her face is beautiful.

Derek took that photo when we weren't looking.

And I can kind of understand now why Derek assumed that I possibly had a *thing* for Callie.

I don't really recognize that guy in the picture with her.

But I want to *be* that guy in the picture with her.

Man card ... lost.

I should go ahead and buy the trailer now.

After ordering room service for the two of us, I kneel down and unzip her boots. I'll never understand the need that women have to strap themselves into stilts and walk around. She groans when her feet are free and I watch her flex her sock covered toes. I sit down on the bed, taking her feet into my lap where I massage one, then the other. I can tell she's enjoying it because she puts her hands behind her head and reclines against the pillows. I concentrate my efforts to the balls of her feet, kneading with my thumb and she groans, then sits up fast.

"Ow!"

"What?" I ask, but I get my answer when moisture spreads over her sock. It's slightly pink. "Blister?"

"Not anymore."

I retrieve the first aid kit and gently tug her sock off. There's a sizeable blister just under her toes and apparently I hit it just the right way. Before I can slather ointment on it and wrap a bandage around it, she stops me. "Mind if I use your shower?"

"Not at all." I force myself not to chuckle at her expense when she hops across the room, careful not to let her oozing foot touch the carpet.

By the time she finishes showering our dinner has arrived. I thought that the sight of artfully garnished and overpriced food was the best thing I'd seen in a while, but now I think it's her. She's wearing my robe and fills it out in all the right places. She has combed her wet hair but the ends are already starting to dry and curl. I reach out and touch it. "Why do you straighten this lately?"

"I don't know," she replies. "I wanted something different."

"I love the curls. They're you."

"I already agreed to have sex with you, Sloan. Don't keep pouring it on so thick."

"What? A man can't be honest?"

She sits down at the table and lifts the silver lid off the platter. "Oooh. You remembered! Extra gravy!"

Oh, if only she knew how much I commit to memory where she's concerned. We dig into our meals and halfway through she seizes the tray and turns it, helping herself to my portion and leaving hers to me. Laughing, I eat the broccoli that I know she avoided and watch her smile at me. "Callie?"

"Yes, Mark?"

"Are you sober?"

"Tragically sober."

"Then let me tell you this while your head is clear. Anyone who turns you down is too stupid to know what to do with you."

"You turned me down earlier."

"Yeah, but I've already proven that I know *exactly* what you need."

She props her chin on her palm and sighs. "Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we weren't *us*?"

I nearly suck a broccoli stem down my throat. "What do you mean if we weren't *us*?"

"You're addicted to women and I'm addicted to the dream that there are men out there who genuinely want the same things I want."

"What do you want?"

She shrugs, sipping her water. When she sets it down I repeat the question and it shocks me that her eyes well with tears. "Callie?"

"I want to be wanted. Not just my body, but my ... *everything*. I want someone who is genuinely interested in my day and wants to hear my view on things. I want to be with somebody who *gets* me and lets me get them in return. Someone who can finish my sentences and never gets tired of waking up next to me. I want the goddamned white picket fence so I can paint it black and buck the system. And I want kids, Mark. I want a bunch of little kids chasing me around in the backyard while my *someone* cooks on the grill."

"So you basically want a Norman Rockwell painting?"

"I want something more than ... this." Leaning back in the chair, she wipes a tear off her cheek, then laughs but I know her well enough to see how fake it is. "I'm willing to trust someone again even though it never worked out for me before because this being alone thing? I'm over it."

Callie's a pretty crier. I've watched her fall apart more times than I can count and while I never enjoy seeing it ... I have to admit that she's one of the lucky few who can cry without puffing up all over. Her lips look insanely full as they tremble now and I push away from the table and stand. She doesn't object when I pull her chair around. As a matter of fact, she rests her hands on my shoulders as I kneel down in front of her. "I've already told you that you are not alone. We're together."

"We're not together. We just have a lot of sex."

"We have to be together for that, too."

"Do you want to be together right now?"

"I told you ... we can *talk*."

"Fuck that. I'm going to sleep." She stands up and starts past me, but the bottom of the robe catches on the arm of the chair and I see her in all her naked glory underneath. No matter how many times I touch her or how often I see her naked and writhing underneath me ... I always have a little trouble breathing when she first takes off her clothes. I like women. Short, tall, skinny. It never mattered much to me because they all bleed together after a while. But Callie? I don't think I could ever forget the flare of her hip, the inward curve of her waist, the briefest indication of a love handle on her back or the firmness of her long, lithe thighs. Everything about her, even the rounded globe of her ass, sticks with me. She's *flawed* in all the right places. She's *real* in all the right ways. I get paid to change women who hate all the things about themselves that I love about her.

"Mark?"

I realize that my hands have moved under her robe and I'm holding it open to look my fill. Busted, I clear my throat and say, "It looked like you had a bruise on your stomach. I wanted to check and make sure -"

She lifts her foot, resting it on the tent in my pants. I'm hard as a rock and she's feeling it. "Are you sure you only want to talk?"

Even though every fiber of my being protests and it's painful to do so ... I say, "Yes."

"Goodnight, Mark. I'm sleeping here."

She walks past me and pulls the cover down on the bed. She doesn't hesitate to drop the robe to the floor and she gives me a three hundred and sixty degree view of what I'm turning down. Being mauled by a pit bull could not possibly be worse than this. I have to readjust myself as I stand and put the lids back on our plates. The maid service will take care of it and I have to take a freezing shower to take care of myself.

When I join her in the bed she's sleeping peacefully and I spoon against her back.

My hard on rages.

My heart roars.

And when I finally sleep she's in my dreams ... I'm chasing her while she laughs and points at the kite in the sky. When I look up, though, it's the picture of the two of us floating on air.

I feel like I am the one flying when we tumble to the grass and she takes me into her mouth ... God ... her hot, wet, insanely talented mouth is ...

REAL!

Hello, Callie Torres, in a way that I've never experienced.

It's official.

She's better than the girl from Thailand. Better than anyone. Better than EVERYONE.

I lift the cover and peer under it, watching her in the early morning light that is spilling through the window. It's just after dawn and it's obviously overcast because I can barely see her, but I definitely feel her. I can only stare as her plump lips slide over me and I almost lose complete control when her brown eyes meet mine. There's something wanton and untamable in those brown depths. I thought they were onyx, but now they're burning like black fire.

I'm pathetic.

And I want to be inside her.

"Come here," I grunt, reaching down to tug at her arms. She gets one more stroke in and I moan her name. Then ... then she's sitting astride me and I'm so far inside her that it makes any coherent thought impossible.

She told me once that the reason she's so limber, so flexible and *good* on top, is because she grew up dancing the Salsa. I watch her now, breasts bouncing, hips swiveling and I have to touch her. I slide my hand over her slightly rounded belly, through the thatch of dark curls between her legs, and finally ... finally I find her clit and rub it with the same intensity that she rides me with. I know she's about to come. I've seen her do it too many times, but not nearly enough. Her head falls back, the pulse quickens in her neck as she grasps at my legs and finally ... finally she lets go. She's not overly loud when she gets off, but the sound she makes is pulled from deep inside and it's always enough to nearly kill me. I grab her hips to keep her from moving, but the contractions inside her are enough to make me come undone. Her inner walls grasp at me, spasms clenching and massaging ... and I don't have a condom on.

I'm spared the humiliation of telling her to wait ... or lifting her off me to pull out ... because a harsh sob erupts from her and any joy I was experiencing is gone in an instant.

I sit up fast, wrapping my arms around her. "Callie?"

"I'm sorry."

"For?"

"There has to be more to life than this. How do you do this? How do you just ... have sex and move on to the next person?"

"I - I don't -"

"You *do*. How? How do you not need more? I need to be that way. I need to not be disappointed so much."

My dick is so flaccid now that it falls from her without any fanfare at all. "I do need more. I want more. I've just been waiting for the right person."

"I hope you find her soon because this isn't any way to exist."

I dry her eyes and give her a kiss, which is another thing that we don't do a whole lot of. When her arms go around my neck I deepen it, holding her flush against my chest. I never thought I would live to say that kissing someone is just as fulfilling as fucking them, but it's happening right now.

What the hell was Erica Hahn thinking?

Callie tilts her head and I slide my tongue over her bottom lip, then lave at hers when she opens her mouth. I've had my toes curled in many mind blowing ways, but this is the best. This is definitely the best. Her breasts are against my chest, her legs around my waist, her palms are smoothing through my hair and her tongue ... God, her tongue. I can taste the salt of her tears and cup her face when she sobs again. Her eyes are on mine when I pull back and I make a mental note to avoid ever purposely sending her into this state because I don't like it. I don't like the way the brown in her eyes swim or the way her chin trembles. I hate the way her cheeks flush and her nose turns red and if I'm ever responsible for it ...

"Mark?"

"What, baby?"

She opens her mouth and then closes it again. I think we're both letting the endearment that I just used for her wash over us. For me, it felt natural ... for her ... I can't tell. Calling her baby when she's drunk feels different than saying it when she's sober ... when she understands what it means.

I watch her worry her bottom lip between her teeth before she says, "You - you didn't finish."

I give her a big grin. "Well, I'm not really used to you crying on me, Cal. It was a little ... unexpected."

"Oh." She looks down at her hand, which is resting against my thundering heart, and then her eyes widen. "Oh, God. I have - I need to go."

She's off me before I can stop her and I'm so stunned that she's no longer pressed against me that it takes me a while to react. By the time my brain processes that she's *leaving*, she's already got her pants on and is reaching for her shirt. "Stay for breakfast," I blurt, detangling my legs and standing up.

Her eyes move over my naked body before she tugs her shirt on and she stumbles over her own bare feet. I lean forward in time to catch her and she jerks away from me, yanking her sleeves down. "I - I can't."

"Why? It's early. We're both off and, well, maybe we should talk."

"No."

I attempt to stand between her and her boots, but she feints to the left and snatches them off the floor. She doesn't even bother putting them on as she heads for the door. I lean back against it before she can reach for the knob. "What are you doing?"

"Get out of the way, Sloan."

"Why? What's wrong with you?"

"You - you called me baby!"

"Yeah. And?"

"If you're going to mock me for being a basket case ... then call me crazy. Don't call me 'baby'."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"How did you - no, don't tell me! Just don't say anything else."

I watch her readjust her purse strap and move her boots from one hand to the other. Her face is still bright red, but I don't think crying has anything to do with it. She's *embarrassed*. By what I called her. "Callie-"

"Zip it, Mark."

"Look at me."

It takes a good ten seconds, but she finally lifts her eyes. They're red and swollen. "I -"

"I told you I'm waiting for the right person. It's not my fault that I've finally found her."

"WHAT!?!"

"I want to be with you. I have feelings for you, Callie, and I don't -"

"OH. MY. GOD!"

"I know, isn't it incredible?"

"NO, JACKASS!" Her nostrils flare and I'm tempted to touch her nose. "Mark! You do realize that just *yesterday* you turned me down and told me to go finish what I started with Hahn, right? You don't get to -"

"I was doing what I thought I needed to do to make you happy! Not what *I* wanted. I'm glad she's a fucking idiot. I'm glad she ran off when you kissed her. I'm *damn* glad that you're here with me."

"You asshole."

"I have feelings for you," I repeat, nodding my head. "I've known for a while."

"God, I hate you."

"No, you don't! When I told you that I wish I was all someone thought about ... that was me hoping that you would tell me I was!"

"You don't have feelings for me! You feel guilty because you encouraged me to go after Hahn and it backfired. I get it. Clear your conscious. It's fine."

I grab her by the shoulders and tug her forward, shaking her a few times. I hear her draw in her breath and before she can exhale it, I capture her mouth with mine, pulling her roughly against my chest. She doesn't protest. Not at first. She leans into me and I feel her hand on my waist. When my own hands move down her body and cup her ass, she drops her boots on my foot. The pointy heel hits my big toe just right. I break the kiss to throw my head back and swear colorfully. I'm hopping back toward the bed, one foot in my hand, when I hear the door open and close behind me.

But I'm too hobbled to go after her.

For now.

*~*~*~*~*

Derek's property has an amazing view of the city. You can see everything, traffic jams, backyard cookouts, and helicopters coming and going at Seattle Grace. I know that somewhere in the chaos, Callie is down there avoiding me. For two weeks she has changed her schedule to work a different rotation than mine. She has gone out of her way to screen her calls and when I called her from Joe's instead of using my own phone, she answered and hung up the second I greeted her. I've been going back and forth with myself, trying to decide if it was the ass grab or the confession that she's 'the one' that has her spooked. I've come to the conclusion that she *likes* being groped too much for that to be the issue here. The real problem ... is that I said too much. And I'm not used to a Callie free existence, especially when I've finally realized that I'm in this thing with her that she seems oblivious to.

It's usually the other way around, you know? Women sleep with me a few times and want a ring, a dog, and an apartment. I'm that good. I admit it. I'm just as shocked as *she* is that I'm ready for all of the above and then some. Well, maybe not a dog. I like being the alpha male too much for that. But I'd happily do the apartment. And probably the ring. I narrow my eyes a little and stare out at Seattle Grace. Maybe the ring can wait. I'd have to actually get her to talk to me first. Flowers haven't done it. I found the bouquet I sent her in a patient's room. The balloon bouquet I sent sounded like gunfire in the lobby when she popped them all with her ink pen. And the note that I revisited high school to slide through the slats of her locker came back to me, envelope unopened, via Yang.

I'm tired of apologizing.

I'm tired of trying to get her attention.

Today, by god, she will speak to me or ... I don't know what I'll do, but I'll make sure it's impressive.

I climb into my car and turn on the heat.

I swear, her perfume is still everywhere, even two weeks later.

She's everywhere.

I think it's her on the street and I rubberneck to look back.

And then life goes dark and for the first time in a while ... I don't miss her.

I don't think at all.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Callie..."

"Shhh, you're okay."

"I - Callie?"

"I'm here."

She is. That's her voice. That's definitely her voice and when someone wipes a cloth over my face, I know that it's her touch. I can smell her perfume again. Hell, I gave her that perfume for Christmas when she was upset about her divorce and the fact that she couldn't go home to Miami. I breathe her in and cough, then open my eyes. The stark fluorescent lights are blinding, sending a bolt of pain through my head. Sensory overload. I can feel oxygen up my nose, there's pain in my left arm, I can hear the sound of my heartbeat on the monitor and the dizziness I have is definitely from pain medication. Or maybe ... it's her. She says my name again and I turn my head toward it, waiting for her to swim into focus. I see her black cloud of hair first and then make out her rose colored lips. Perfect lips. Perfect ... Callie.

"Mark? Are you in pain?" she asks.

I nod at her. "Yeah."

"Where?"

She's in focus now and I can see every freckle on her nose, every pore on her face. The concern that is written all over her features makes me feel warm inside. "My arm."

"You have a hairline fracture. I won't have to put a cast on, but you'll need a brace for a few weeks."

If she's not staying here to put a cast on ... then what is she here for? "My ribs?"

"You're bruised up, but nothing's broken." She puts her elbows on the bed rail, leaning a little closer to me. "And Derek did a great job stitching your face. You'll only scar a little."

My hand flies to my face and I narrow my eyes at her when I feel nothing there. "Liar."

"Do I have your attention?"

"Maybe."

"You ran a red light. I always tell you that you can't drive for shit. What the hell were you thinking?!"

"I thought I saw you. On the street. I was looking back."

She moves back a little and grips the rail with her hands, tight enough to make her knuckles white. "Oh."

"Cal-"

"Shut up."

"But -"

"Mark, you win."

"I win?"

She crosses her arms over her chest for a few seconds, then nods. "Yes, asshat. You win. And I swear to GOD ... if you rub it in or strut around here just because your ego is inflated ... you'll need a body cast."

"Maybe I'm too medicated to get what you're saying ... but ... what the hell are you talking about?"

"I have feelings, too."

"Uh ... okay?"

"FOR YOU!"

"For me?"

"That is what I said, Mark."

Her tone is enough to rankle me, even if I am still floating on a narcotic high. "Well MAYBE, Torres, you should have said something BEFORE I nearly died and when I'm NOT high as HELL!"

"Keep talking and I won't say it at all, jackass!"

"Say what?" I demand. "Are you going to talk in circles some more?"

"Ooooh, I hate you!"

"At least we're getting somewhere!" I try to sit up, but every bone in my body howls in protest and I have to groan to keep from joining them in their agony. "Ow. Jesus..."

She's on me at once, easing me back against the bed and pressing the button that will give me another dosage of pain medication. I stare at her until sleep takes me down again.

But I would swear that she whispers she loves me against my lips.

*~*~*~*~

"I'm healed."

"No, you're not, Mark."

"I feel fine."

"Is that why you grunted and groaned your way through your shower this morning?" Callie's eyes widen and she looks away. "Oh ... you were ... uhm ... do you want some bacon?"

My bottom jaw drops open. "I was NOT doing what you think I was doing, pervert! You try washing over six feet of body in a tiny little shower. Why in the HELL can't Derek own a NICE trailer?"

She drops a couple of bacon slices onto my plate and adds a few scrambled eggs. "I think it's nice. I like it out here. It's quiet."

"Is that right?"

With a nod, she finishes off her pancakes and stands, putting her plate in the sink. For three weeks, she has come every day before and after her shift to cook for me, to bring me books and movies, to do my laundry and make the bed with clean sheets. What she has not done ... is mention the big pink elephant that we've been ignoring. She has not mentioned her feelings again. And she has not asked me about mine. In every way, she treats me like a boyfriend, like someone she loves, but the words haven't been spoken in any place other than my dreams. Oh, she kisses me hello and goodbye, she calls me on her breaks to make sure I'm okay, but she doesn't SAY anything. When she refills my coffee cup, I put my hand on hers. "Sit down. We need to talk."

She puts a pot holder on the table and sets the coffee pot down on it. For a split second, I think she's going to bolt, but she surprises me. Sitting down across from me, she threads her fingers together primly. Too primly. I hate it. "Okay."

For twenty one days, I have prowled around Derek's tiny trailer and practiced this conversation a million times. I even wrote a few things down on index cards that I found in the kitchen drawer, but they're in the bedroom and I really don't want to leave her alone to get them. She could leave. She's flighty, Callie Torres. I mentally flip through those damn cards though and as much as I'd like to say something, anything ... I'm halfway through my third cup of coffee and she's refilling my cup again before I can utter a sound. What comes out is ... "Uhhh..."

"This is not an enlightening conversation," she says, giving me a stoic smile. "So, let me fill in the blanks. Either you want to tell me thank you for helping you out or you want to tell me you've changed your mind about ... me. Us, I mean. So, Mark, I'll go ahead and tell you that you're welcome ... and that I understand ... about ... us. I get it."

I'm stunned. There is no other word for it. "Are you kidding me?"

"What?"

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME!?" I repeat.

"Uhm ... no?"

She says that word like a question and it infuriates me. I glare at her until she looks away. A full minute passes before I find my voice. "You know ... you made a lot more sense when we were just friends, Callie. And we had sex more!"

I know I've said the wrong thing when her bottom jaw falls open. "More sex!? Is that what this is about!? You want *sex*? Of course you do! Who am I kidding!? Sure, you have feelings for me ... the lusty kind, right? The itch that I can scratch because I'm convenient and I'm *here* and -"

"WILL YOU SHUT UP!?!"

"DON'T YELL AT ME!"

"THEN STOP BEING CRAZY!"

"THAT DOES IT! I AM LEAVING!"

"CALLIE!"

"WHAT!?!"

I push myself to my feet and catch her before she can grab her keys. "I bought this place from Derek. The trailer, the land ... even his stupid ass blueprints for a house that you'll hate and I'll ... change to whatever you like. So ... don't leave. Because I love you."

That must have gotten her attention. She lowers her hand to her side and her big eyes are unblinking. I've never had anyone look at me with so much intensity and I feel like she's microwaving me. My insides are liquefying. I said it. I ... really said it. And ... holy shit ... I meant it. I love her. I am in love with her. I'm soulful. I'm Derek ... only better looking.

I finally clear my throat. "Uh, are you ... well ... you're never speechless so don't start now."

I'm braced for the worst. A slap across the face. Maybe her knee between my legs. Maybe she'll laugh at me.

I'm stunned, however, when the most beautiful smile I have ever seen flits across her features and she says, "I love you, too."

Thank GOD I'm healed.

Because we make great use of the rickety table ... and she's not the kind to mind syrup in her hair.

She finds my index cards in the bedroom a while later and I read them to her. We both laugh hysterically.

Six months later ... an index card in her locker asks her to marry me.

And she uses the hospital's PA to say yes.

*~*~*~

Kite flying weather has become a part of me. Anytime the wind picks up and lifts the ends of their hair ... I head into the basement to find our kite. Just one. We take turns holding the string and Callie, ever a bundle of energy, is always more than happy to run around the yard until the kite flies. Our son has graduated from watching in his playpen to running after his mother on his shaky two year old legs. Our daughter, the six year old diplomat, likes to tell her brother that he is 'doing it wrong' until a screaming match erupts between them.

I stopped trying to intervene in their spats. It takes me thirty minutes of talking to accomplish what Callie manages in thirty seconds. One look from her, that look that used to be mine alone, and our brats will hug one another and smile innocently. Having suffered the effects of that look myself ... I don't worry that it's a character flaw or a weakness in our offspring. I think it's survival instinct.

We spend the last official day of summer eating hot dogs and taking turns with the kite. Behind us, the white house that we built together, with a wraparound porch and hanging ferns, looks like a home. There are two bicycles, one with training wheels and one without, leaning against the black picket fence that my wife wanted ... to buck the system.

She once listed everything that she wanted out of life.

Callie Torres wanted someone who was genuinely interested in her day and wanted to hear her view on things. She wanted someone who 'gets' her and lets her get them in return. She longed for someone to finish her sentences and someone who would never get tired of waking up next to her. And she wanted kids. She wanted a bunch of kids who could chase her around the backyard while her someone ... that would be me ... cooked on the grill. I never forgot any of what she told me that night and I've spent ten years making sure that I follow through.

All that's left is the rest.

I hope it's a long life.

The End

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